THE STEALER IN THE NIGHT TORE THE LEG OFF A CHICKEN and stripped the flesh with his teeth. He grimaced. The bird wasn’t properly cooked and the meat was red and bloody close to the bone.
He glared at the gang member who had been responsible for cooking the chicken, which had been stolen from an outlying farm the night before.
“Harold! This bird is raw!” the Stealer snarled. “Where did you learn to cook?”
Harold, a black-haired, heavyset man, returned his glare sullenly. “Never said I was a cook,” he replied. He’d spitted the bird on a green branch and suspended it over their fire. But he didn’t wait for the flames to die down to hot coals, and soon the outer skin was blackening and charring. Assuming that the inside meat would be the same, he’d taken it off the fire and served it to his leader.
The Stealer threw the leg bone into the bushes. Then, his anger mounting, he grabbed the rest of the chicken carcass and sent it spinning after the leg.
“Get me some cheese and bread,” he ordered. “Even you couldn’t mess that up. And some ale as well.”
Harold muttered angrily to himself. But he kept the comments down.
Bitter experience had taught him that the Stealer had a vicious temper—and an uncertain one.
The leader of the kidnappers was dressed all in black, the color he wore when he entered households and stole children away. He was above average height and well built—although he was running to fat and had thickened round the middle. His hair had once been blond—almost white. Now it was a
dirty gray color. It hung to his neck and was matted in thick strings. The Stealer didn’t believe in washing it too often.
His features were regular. His chin was strong, although the same tendency to fat was becoming apparent around his chin and neck. His would have been a handsome face except for the eyes and mouth. The eyes were pale, tinged with yellow. They were like a wolf’s eyes, he had been told once
—although the man who told him regretted those words a few minutes after uttering them. They were cold, cruel eyes and they were matched by the thin-lipped mouth that turned down at the corners. Nobody could remember seeing him smile.
Harold placed a wooden platter before him, with a hunk of strong cheese and the end of a loaf of bread. The Stealer grunted, drew his belt knife and cut himself some of the cheese.
“Where’s the ale?” he demanded. His follower turned hurriedly back to the supply table and drew a mug of ale from a small cask. The Stealer grunted again when it was placed in front of him. The words thank you didn’t seem to be part of his vocabulary.
They were in the camp that was their temporary headquarters. There were nine men, including the Stealer himself and the blue-cloaked Storyman. In addition, there were five children, with ages ranging from ten to fourteen, chained together underneath a large tree. The Stealer glanced at them now.
They were huddled under the tree, where a torn piece of canvas was stretched over the branches to provide them with cover in the event of rain. The kidnappers themselves shared small two-man tents, except for the Stealer. As leader, he demanded a tent to himself. It was larger than the low-standing tents his followers slept in, and where they made do with sleeping blankets on the ground, he had a small folding camp bed.
The gang had been abducting children from small villages throughout Trelleth Fief for several months. They targeted small villages, remote from one another and with little or no communication between them. That way, by the time one village where a child had gone missing found out that there were others in the same fief where a similar thing had happened, the Stealer and his men would be long gone.
The system he’d devised worked admirably. The Storyman entered a village, gained the trust of the local children and targeted a child for kidnapping. He selected boys or girls who were mistreated by their parents.
That way, when they disappeared, they were usually assumed to be
runaways. Their parents might search for them, but there would be no organized hue and cry.
Once he’d engaged the children in a village and selected a target, the Storyman changed tack. His stories, at first amusing and entertaining, took on a darker, more sinister nature. He described the fearsome person known as the Stealer, a figure from the shadows, who stalked through the land seeking out children and stealing them away to his realm in the netherworld. He warned the children that if the Stealer should visit their village, they were to say nothing about him. They were never to discuss him with their parents, or any other adult.
If they did, the Stealer would know, and he would wreak terrible vengeance on them.
The Storyman was an accomplished raconteur. By the time he moved on from a village, the children were usually terrified out of their wits.
That way, when one of their number disappeared shortly after, they said nothing. It was a clever stratagem. In many cases, in poor villages like the ones they preyed on, several children would sleep in the same room. If by chance a child woke and saw the black-clad figure, the fear engendered by the Storyman would ensure that he or she remained mute. Mute and terrified.
The children knew if they interfered, if they said anything about him or tried to raise the alarm, they would disappear along with their companion.
The Stealer’s gang had been operating this way for the past twelve months, moving from one fief to another, changing their area of operation frequently, so that no word of their activities ever reached the authorities.
Once they settled in a new area, they would begin abducting children.
Then, when they had sufficient prisoners—usually ten or twelve—they would move on to the next phase of their operations.
The Stealer heard hoofbeats and looked up. One of his scouts had ridden into the camp. The man was dressed in a patched farmer’s smock and wore a shapeless felt hat. He would pass virtually unnoticed in any of the villages or hamlets the gang had passed through. He looked around, saw the Stealer sitting hunched at his table and strode across to him.
“We may have trouble brewing,” he said briefly. He sat down opposite his leader and turned to yell at the man who had served the Stealer. “Harold! Get me some ale here!”
Harold mumbled to himself. But he moved toward the cask and selected a mug from the table. There was a distinct ranking order in the gang and he
was close to the bottom of it.
The Stealer frowned.
“Where?” he asked. The scout held up a hand for him to wait while Harold handed him a mug of ale, foam slopping over the brim. The scout didn’t seem to care. He upended it and drank thirstily, then slammed the mug down with a satisfied grunt.
“Esseldon,” he said, and belched. The Stealer frowned. They’d hit Esseldon recently. He glanced toward the group of prisoners under the tree, trying to pick out the one he’d abducted from that village. But after they’d been operating for a few weeks, the faces all blurred and he couldn’t be sure which one it was.
The fear that the Storyman struck into the hearts of the village children was usually enough to prevent any mention of the Stealer reaching the ears of their parents.
Usually.
But there was always the chance that a child, braver or more foolish than the others, might talk. If that happened, the villagers would be alerted to the presence of the Stealer in their area and might well mount a search for the missing child. And in that case, the gang would have to move on to a new fief to avoid discovery. To gain early warning of such an occurrence, the Stealer had his scouts make regular visits back to the villages where they’d already struck to make sure that their secret was still secure.
In Esseldon, apparently, someone had been talking.
“May be nothing,” the scout continued. “But there’s a young girl been asking questions.”
“One of the locals?” the Stealer asked.
The other man shook his head. “No. She’s traveling through with her da.
He’s looking for work and they’ve been staying at the inn. But I heard her quizzing one of the local kids about the Storyman—and about the boy we took out of that village. She’s learned nothing so far, but I thought you ought to know.”
The Stealer massaged his jaw between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. There was always the chance that one child might talk. And now, it seemed, his extra precautions in sending the scout back to check things in Esseldon had proved worthwhile.
“I think we’d better let this girl know what happens to people who ask awkward questions,” he said thoughtfully. Then he turned and shouted
toward the group of men sitting on the grass around the camp fire.
“Benito! Come here. I’ve got a job for you!”
Yes, he thought, Benito was the one to send. He’d been injured in a fight some years before, struck by a blow to the throat that left his voice little more than a harsh whisper. Benito was bitter and angry about the injury, and he was usually only too glad to undertake the task of frightening any child who disobeyed the Storyman’s instructions.
He walked to the table now, touching one knuckle to his forehead in a sign of respect for the gang leader.
“What is it, Jefe?” he asked, using the Iberian term for “boss” or “chief.”
Benito’s Iberian accent overlaid the harsh whisper of his voice. The combination was usually enough to frighten any child.
“There’s a girl in Esseldon asking questions. Robert here can tell you what she looks like and where to find her,” the Stealer told him, indicating the scout. “Go in there tonight and frighten her off. Or kill her,” he added carelessly.
A cruel smile stole over Benito’s swarthy features.
“That will be my pleasure, Jefe. ”
